


Reginald Black

by LimeOfMagicLimo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Amnesia, One Shot, Regulus Black Lives, Regulus Black-centric, Self-Indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28028112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LimeOfMagicLimo/pseuds/LimeOfMagicLimo
Summary: "In very severe cases of anoxic encephalopathy, many individuals remain in a permanent vegetative state. In less severe cases, most studies agree that the most common (and often only) reported clinical manifestation in anoxic brain injury is memory impairment."- Nicholas Wolstenholme BSc (Hons), MBChB, Bruce Moore MD, MRCPsych; The clinical manifestations ofanoxic brain injury
Relationships: Regulus Black & Kreacher, Regulus Black & Sirius Black
Comments: 11
Kudos: 92





	Reginald Black

In the borough of Islington, a painter set up his supplies.

* * *

The man had a cat lounging on his shoulders like a scarf. He whispered to the feline quietly, describing what he was trying to achieve in the painting as well as little impressions about the buildings and their occupants. The animal was clearly used to this quirk of her owner’s. Occasionally she would mrow at the man and receive a scratch behind her ear from paint-stained fingers.

The peaceful scene was disturbed by a loud crack, not unlike a car’s exhaust pipe or a gunshot. The cat sprung up like the Devil himself stepped on her tail, and dashed for the line of houses the artist was painting. The artist himself had jumped up in shock, bumped into the stand and smeared paint on it as he saved it from crashing to the ground. “Shit,” he cursed and took after the cat. “Curiosity!” His voice was raspy and talking at such volume sounded painful. 

The blasted cat either didn’t hear him in her fright or ignored him for she jumped into the first open window she spotted. To the artist’s rotten luck, it happened to be just the building with a gloomy, abandoned atmosphere that had been giving him deja-vu since he stumbled upon it a week ago.

The unfortunate cat owner stopped by the black iron fence in front of the window, hissing her name numerous times in hope she would come back on her own. When it did not bring the desired results, the man capitulated and walked up to the door. 

He pressed the doorbell button a little forcefully - it looked old and he doubted it worked well. Through the small area of contact he could feel plentiful wards protecting the place. That… was almost certainly not good. But he couldn’t leave without Curiosity, and so he waited by the door even though he couldn’t hear any response from the inside. 

He was just about to ring the bell again when the door flew open. “Bloody hell, I told you to not touch the bloody bell!” the house’s occupant barked. It was clear he was not having a good day, or a good year judging by the wild hair and strained lines of his face. The painter decided to be as swift as possible and go away before he got cussed out or worse.

“I’m terribly sorry for disturbing you, sir,” he spoke quickly, “I’m afraid my cat-”

He was rudely interrupted by being grabbed by his collar, dragged into the hall and slammed head-first into a wall. Black specs blurred his vision and a tip of a wand entered it. His good hand flew to the wrist by his neck while the lame one tried to reach for his own wand. He was rewarded with a stun that took his arm out of commission completely. “Who are you,” the attacker growled. 

“Reginald Vizenor,” the pinned man answered quickly, hoping cooperation would save him more damage. It only made the madman press the tip of his wand to his cheek painfully. Standing this close, the other man turned out to be an inch shorter than Reginald. Not that it made him any less intimidating. His eyes were sharp with rage, their gray reminiscent of a storm. “Look I-” Before Reginald could say anything to diffuse the situation, the doorbell rang, both men flinched (nearly costing Reginald an eye) and horrendous screeching filled the house. 

The shorter man cursed, and then the cat owner was unconscious sooner than his body hit the floor. 

* * *

He came to half-sitting, half-laying on something moderately soft and very dusty, Curiosity purring in his ear and soothing the throbbing pain in his skull. When he tried to massage the ache out of the back of his head he found his arms mostly immobile - tied up in his lap, the left still numb from the stun. He was also missing his coat and sweater, deep-bone chills settling in his body without the warming charms woven into the wool and the accompanying psychological effect. His left sleeve was undone and rolled up to his elbow, revealing the mess of deformed muscle and old scars. It was the worst of damage done to his body and most days, he was still uncomfortable with having it bared to the world. He could feel his medical alert bracelets as well as his wristwatch sitting snugly on his right wrist though and that calmed him down significantly.

Eyes closed, the artist pressed his face closer to the soft warmth of his cat’s fur. Purring louder, Curiosity climbed from his shoulder to his lap and draped herself over his chest like a blanket. With a sigh, Reginald buried his fingers in her warm fur. “ _ Now _ you’re here,” he grumbled, a little pissed at the feline for she got him in this unsavory situation. 

Sometimes he wondered whether the cat was not half or full Kneazle, given her abnormal intelligence and uncanny ability to lead him to the most interesting people. True, she came from a wizarding pet shop. However so did Satisfaction who was a couch potato and never got him in any trouble; place of origin therefore wasn’t the deciding factor.

He was ripped from his musing rather rudely by a menacing growl. “Who are you.” He recognised the voice of the Grimmauld number 12’s occupant and answered without opening his eyes. He suspected it would make his headache significantly stronger. 

“Reginald Vizenor,” he said. “I would like to inform you that should I fail to return home before nine this evening, my absence will be noticed and a search party will be dispatched.” Rigid routine has been his lifesaver for over a decade. 

“Don’t lie to me, Regulus!” the man shouted, and Reginald was sure that if he looked up, he’d have a wand in his face again. “

I’m not,” he snapped back, the sharpness of it making his throat ache. Did the man mistake him for someone named after a star? Did he look like he was raised by hippies?

“Restrain yourself, Sirius. Our guest has yet to act hostile; you should express the same courtesy.” This voice belonged to a much older man. Right; the bell had been set off. This must’ve been the visitor. Not liking the thought of more people being in the room without his knowledge, Reginald carefully fluttered his eyelids open, letting his long hair shade his eyes from the light. It took several moments for him to be able to keep them even half-open.

“Courtesy,” the aggressive man spitted out, but presumably backed off because it was the older man who addressed Reginald next. “Mr. Vizenor. I apologise for the rough treatment, however I need you to answer some questions for us.” There were shuffling sounds. “Your identification states you are an American citizen.” 

Ah, so they found his wallet. Reginald wanted to point out that even if they were policemen they wouldn’t be authorised to interrogate him without his lawyer present. He rather doubted it would earn him any plus points though. “Yes. You know my name, I only think it fair for you to tell me yours.”

The interrogator hummed lightly. “My name is Albus Dumbledore. This is Sirius Black.” He remained silent waiting for a reaction. To Reginald’s dismay only the second name sounded familiar; he had no idea where he might have heard it though. He tried to commit the names to his memory. _ Dumbledore, dumb-le-door, stupid door Dumbledore _ .  _ Sirius Black, Sirius as in the Dog star, Black as in, night’s sky. The Dog Star in the night’s sky, Sirius Black. _

When he said nothing, Dumbledore spoke up again. “Your accent doesn’t strike me as American. I would have thought you a fellow British.”

“I gained US citizenship in 1987.”  _ Dumbledore, stupid door. Dog Star night sky - Sirius Black. _

“And before that?”

Raising his head slowly, Reginald did his best to not cry from the mixture of throbbing pain and specks of dust floating around him. He must’ve looked really stupid and weak, blinking owlishly and cradling a cat to his chest like it could shield him from harm. Maybe he could use his pathetic looks to his advantage. Gain a little sympathy. He didn’t want to answer the questions and his head  _ did _ hurt something fierce, more now when he was looking at the elderly man. He didn’t see anyone else in the room.

There were no traces of cruelty in Dumbledore’s face. It wasn’t written in the wrinkles around his eyes or the bony knuckles of his hands, which were clasped in front of his chest. There was, however, the hardness of somebody unshakably sure of their moral standing. This man thought highly of himself, and would waddle through dead bodies if he thought he was doing the right thing. Reginald had learned to recognise this trait in hospital staff.

Sirius Black meanwhile was pacing, and despite the dangerous air around the man Reginald didn’t think he would attack unprovoked. What the man perceived as provocation was an unknown.

He closed his eyes again, grimacing ever so slightly when it didn’t bring the expected relief. “May I have an ibuprofen? My head is killing me.”

“You  _ are  _ dead!” 

The sudden outburst of Black’s had Reginald flinching out of both shock and headache. There was a flash of a thought that flinching only led to more verbal abuse, but then Curiosity mrowed in displeasure at being squished. The painter quickly loosened his hold on the cat. He was startled by his own reaction; this tendency to become one with the nearest wall was amongst the first issues he had tackled with his therapist. There was just something in Black’s voice that brought the fears right back. _Black brought_ _fear_ _back_.

“Sirius,” the old man said placatingly, but now Reginald had a question of his own. 

“Does that statement refer to after you are done with this interrogation? Or to December of ‘79?” he asked quickly. Then his brain finally made the connection between the man’s face and name. “You’re Sirius Black. The escapee from… three years ago? Two?” His eyebrows knitted together. The Azkaban breach made news in  _ The New York Ghost _ and even made a blip on major no-Maj sources. His sleep had been hounded by nightmares after seeing the picture on the  _ Wanted _ poster. According to Nelson, Black looked like Reginald would _ ‘ _ had he been shipped to the wrong kind of mental hospital’.

Nelson had theorised Sirius Black could be the older brother from Reginald’s spotty memories and that he might be behind the drowning. Reginald quickly shut him up saying he'd rather spend his energy playing a matchmaker and plotting the upcoming divorce than make up horror stories about a family he couldn't remember.

Nelson still wrote and published a short story inspired by his theory. Reginald didn’t read it.

“What happened in 1979?” the calmer of the two interrogators dared. The addressed man shrugged, eyes still closed, and forcibly relaxed into the dusty armchair. They apparently weren’t interested in letting him go and defenseless as he was… He could only hope they would let him go when they were done with him. Or that accidental magic would save him once again if the situation got more dire.

“I was found floating in the Thames, drowned.”

“A pretty half-arsed drowning if you’re still kicking,” Black remarked bitterly. Regulus didn’t deem it worthy of an answer. 

Instead he peered at the old man through his eyelashes. (The pain behind his eyes spiked again.) Black ran high on emotions but it was Dumbledore who ran this show. “The ibuprofen? There should be some in my left coat-pocket. Though It would seem you found my medication already,” he nodded at the pile of his belongings in the armchair next to Dumbledore’s. His discarded clothes and painting supplies were there too. He was glad they didn’t leave it out in the street. He would hate it if his work got stolen or ruined.

Thankfully the old man didn’t decide to hold the meds hostage. He summoned the correct vial of pills with his wand, ebony wood, and only then Reginald noticed his own handcrafted wand lying in the old wizard’s lap. He pretended he hadn’t seen it as he accepted a pill and a glass of water from the old wizard. Judging by the glint in the old man’s eye, he didn’t succeed. He closed his eyes and leaned back in the armchair once more. He also made it a point to not thank Dumbledore. Silence spread over the three men, one unwilling to talk, one weighing his words, and the third too agitated to speak.

Unsurprisingly it was Sirius Black who broke the stillness. He stopped his pacing abruptly. “What’s this charade for, Reggie? You’ve been playing dead for fifteen years. Fifteen years! And you show up the same summer He came back. Either you’ve grown a conscience and a spine,” Black was now standing right in front of the painter, his voice harsh and spiteful, ignoring the cat who was growling at him to keep his distance, “and will fight Him, or you can get right out. But why pretend you don’t recognise me? What are you playing at, Regulus?”

“I,” Reginald said as evenly as he could though his patience was growing thin, “have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Really, Reggie?” Black asked mockingly. He looked like he wanted to grab the painter by shoulders and shake a more convenient truth out of him. 

Reginald clenched his jaw in irritation and raised his tied wrists to show off the medical bracelets. One identifying him as  _ Bleeding Disorder - von Willebrand _ , the other  _ ABI - Memory Issues. If lost, call xxx-xxxx-xxx _ . “Yes, yes really. And stop calling me that. According to the doctors I was clinically dead for nearly three minutes, and that was after I’ve been in freezing water for god knows how long. Lack of oxygen flow to the brain caused permanent neurological damage. The little I remember from before the drowning is distorted and vague. My short term memory is a constant uphill battle. I don’t know who I was, I don’t know who  _ you  _ are outside of a few newspaper articles, I don’t have the  _ slightest  _ idea who he is,” he gestured at - Dumbledore. “Do you believe me now?”

Black stared at him, tense. Like he wanted to punch Reg but knew it wouldn’t bring him the relief he needed.

“Did you know me?” Reginald asked, searching the man’s face. He didn’t know why he was asking. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“What do you remember from before your accident, Mr. Vizenor?” the spectacled old man prompted.

Reginald pulled Curiosity higher on his chest, the fight trickling out of him. The painkiller wouldn’t start kicking in for another twenty minutes at the least. He was outnumbered, defenceless, without means to call immediate help, in company that maybe had known his past self, and seemingly had nothing nice to say about him. He closed his eyes once more with a sigh. He had just wanted to paint the gloomy house to get it off his mind. 

He resigned to what seemed to be his fate. Maybe if he got it over with...

“As I have said. Not much. I hid my paints as a kid because my brother kept ruining the tubes. He was older, I do not think we got along. There was a house elf, who was important to me. I loved flying. I’m fluent in French, can read Latin and Greek. I had a tattoo on the inside of my left forearm.” He swallowed the distaste in his mouth and let Curiosity’s warm soft mass ground him. “I, I was on a suicide watch after I attempted to cut it out.” Successfully. 

The tattoo had been barely recognisable under the scrapes and bruises that covered nearly his entire body, but he found he couldn’t bear the sight of the slashed up skull, the beheaded sake. He had gotten his hands on a hand-mirror another patient pick-pocketed from a nurse and carved the ink out of his skin and muscle, powered by adrenaline and undefined fear. He had flushed it down the toilet. The staff found him barely in time to save his life.

“The police thought it could have been a gang or a cult sign, but to my knowledge didn’t find any organisation using a matching image.”

“Death Eaters,” Black said, too many emotions in his voice for Reginald to decipher. “You joined the Death Eaters, you  _ idiot _ .” 

Reginald didn’t know what to think of the wet undertone of the insult, as if it was coming from a place of love rather than hate; but he rather focused on that than the chills running down his spine at the name.

Black snorted and collapsed into an armchair. He was staring at the dip where the mark used to be, the hard ridge above that slithered from wrist to elbow. Numerous white and pink scraps marred both Reginald' arms, some braided with nearly invisible puncture scars from stitches. Similar scarring was on his face, several gashes going from forehead to hairline and vanishing in his thick salt-and-pepper curls, and many smaller scars on his cheeks. Reginald was used to scrutiny but Black’s intense gaze made him want to squirm nonetheless.

“You have been rescued by muggle law enforcement, then,” the other man, ah, Dum, what was his name? Dumb… Dumme…floor… The old man prompted.

“Correct. I was admitted to emergency treatment at St. George’s Hospital, later transferred to National Hospital in Queen Square for recovery and rehabilitation. As I had no known identity, relatives or friends, I was appointed an identity under the name of Reginald Genteel.” ‘Reginald’ hadn’t felt quite right but was much better than any other name in the calendar. ‘Genteel’ was given to him by the hospital staff. The structure of etiquette had felt like a security blanket to him and the nurses cooed at his “old-timely” manners.

“Why did you not seek help from a healer?” Old Man prompted. “I imagine Saint Mungo’s would provide you with better care than a muggle institution. Or did you forget your wizarding heritage as well?”

The painter focused back on his cat, combing his fingers through her thick coat. “In… in a manner of speaking. My memories of magic were considered an unfortunate mash up of reality and fairy tales. I learned to… not mention it.” He remembered the frustration, the fear that the rare incidents of accidental magic were truly nothing but his mind playing tricks on him. 

“As a part of my recovery I joined an art programme the hospital offered.” His first attempts were painful, both for his body and the on-lookers. But he got better, physically and mentally as well as in bringing his vision to life on a canvass. “If we wanted, we could display our pieces in an associated gallery. Put it up for sale. An American novelist discovered my work. He liked it enough to commission me. I’ve been illustrating his work, and other authors’, since.”

Nelson had been… a lot. The American had been loud and aggravating and nosey and his murder mystery stories were unsettling. Reginald had been overwhelmed by the man, which made him short-tempered and snappy. But he did want the money. Not necessarily the freedom they symbolised - the idea of leaving the safety of the clinic had scared him as much as it had thrilled him. However. Once the writer has learned to dial down his American-ness, he turned out to be quite a pleasurable companion. They built up a comfortable rapport and one day Reginald realised he considered Nelson his friend. 

When Nelson invited him to go back to Minnesota with him… Reginald didn’t give it as much thought as he probably should have. “With steady income and outside help I was able to leave the hospital care. I moved to America with the novelist. I started rediscovering the magical community there, although I still lived among muggles.”

He had had a good life in America. Being a white man with british accent everybody for some reason considered charming went a long way. Together with Nelson they could afford a nice flat; they took turns doing chores depending on who had the bigger workload at the moment. They travelled for research as needed, and for pleasure as they wanted. He met Nelson’s friends, and made a few of his own. 

“Did you register with American wizarding authorities?” asked the Old Man.

“No, I did not.” There was no point lying about it. The Registry wasn’t a sealed source. “By the time I started assimilating with American wizarding culture I was already classified as a Native American thanks to my marriage. According to the-”

“You’re married?” Black exclaimed, suddenly on the edge of his seat. Reginald’s lips thinned in displeasure at being interrupted so rudely.

He met Lousie at Dartmouth College. She was one of the organisers of the Native American Program there, and wrote fantasy fiction which Reginald read with a bated breath. They started talking and realised they enjoyed each other’s unintrusive company. They talked some more. Reginald would have an easier time if he were a US citizen. Lousie could use a mock husband. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement.  They got married, bought a house. Regulus endorsed Lousie’s fight for Indegious people’s rights in any way she asked of him; she in turn supported his aid to the local disabled community.

Considering how many political and human rights activists they were friends with it was a miracle (and in some instances, very cautious application of magic) they were never arrested.    
  
“Divorced,” he said curtly.

Lousie and Gerald made acquaintances through Reginald’s freelance work for Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Centre. In a few short weeks Reginald could tell they were meant for each other; the ring on Lousie’s finger was the only thing standing in the way of their happiness. After a few months and several long conversations between the three, the artist took his cats and went back to living with Nelson.

“As I was saying. According to the Declaration of Independency of Indegious Magic Users I was not required by law to register with the Congress or the law enforcement. My stay in the US was perfectly legal by both Maj and No-Maj legislation.” 

Silence followed his statement, the Old Man contemplating the next direction of the questioning. “What brings you back to England?”

“I was invited to a fundraiser held by the National Hospital. I agreed to provide art classes at the institution as well.” As of next week. Reginald was looking forward to it - the art programme has given him so much, now he could provide the same opportunities to others.

Could he though? While his headache was almost gone now, his other worries did not ease up. Best case scenario, they would obliviate him, wreaking havoc on his fragile mind, and set him free. Worst case scenario… he didn’t dare to think what a vengeful magic user could do to him. Reginald knew death was kind compared to many hexes and curses, of both the dark and light classification.

“What brought you to this particular house?” Old Man followed up his last question. The painter let his gaze glide across the dim interior of the gloomy house. It had to have been left to dust bunnies years ago; everything was covered in a thick layer of dust. There was a single washed mug on the kitchen counter. 

“Curiosity,” he said simply, meaning both the feeling and the cat. He gave the feline in his arms a small bounce.

“You named your cat Curiosity,” Black snorted exasperated, as if it was something he very much expected from Reginald.

“Satisfaction has chosen to stay in the comfort of our flat,” Reginald said wryly, milking the good favour while he could. Talking about his lovely furry friends was no hardship, really; in fact, he’s been told he talks about his cats like other people talk about their children. The tiniest smile pulled at the corner of his lips. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, though. “Unlike this young lady, he is a creature of-”

There was a loud bang somewhere in the house, the sound of bare feet slapping against the hardwood floors and then --

“Master Regulus,” a house elf as ancient and dusty as the house choked out. His wrinkled knobby hands were shaking as he made a few tentative steps towards the painter. The man was frozen in his place. Because he knew this elf. He might not remember, but he  _ knew  _ him. 

His heart was racing when he said the word. Slowly. uncertainly, an echo of a memory of a dream.

“K...reacher?” 

**Author's Note:**

> Some research notes for this fic:
> 
> [The clinical manifestations of anoxic brain injury](https://wchh.onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/pdf/10.1002/pnp.166)
> 
> [Drowning: When the Brain Is Deprived of Oxygen](https://www.sgklawyers.com/blog/2019/02/drowning-brain-damage/)
> 
> Ibuprofen was discovered in 1961 by Stewart Adams and initially marketed as Brufen. It is available under a number of trade names, including Advil and Motrin. It was first marketed in 1969 in the United Kingdom and in the United States in 1974. The drug was launched as a treatment for rheumatoid arthritis in the United Kingdom in 1969. Later, in 1983 it became the first NSAID (other than aspirin) to be available over the counter (OTC). 
> 
> And Regulus' DIY wand is made out of willow wood with jackalope antler core. It's not the most powerful of wands but it is enough for his humble needs.  
> [ Jackalope](https://harrypotter.fandom.com/wiki/Jackalope)


End file.
